


Get Your Feet Wet

by Le_Rouret



Series: Sarasotaverse [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes has a filthy mouth, Bucky Barnes-centric, Casual Sex, F/M, Friendship, One Night Stands, PTSD RECOVERY, Post-Divorce, Retirement, Sarasota
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 03:57:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9699431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Rouret/pseuds/Le_Rouret
Summary: There are certain expectations when it comes to a woman's first post-divorce sexual encounter. You expect flirting. You expect your friends to egg you on. You expect the bartender to have your back. You expect the man to buy you a drink.You don't usually expect the guy to have a metal arm.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheraiah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheraiah/gifts).



> Good evening, lovelies! Here's another offering in the Sarasotaverse, just in time for Valentine's Day. Sheraiah and I wanted a little glimpse of Bucky during his first year of retirement in Sarasota, slowly becoming more comfortable with himself and his body. 
> 
> Warnings for smoking, drinking, loud music, obnoxious friends, selfies, and a teensy bit of angst, because hell-O, Bucky Barnes. Please enjoy sweet, clueless, tipsy Midwestern Biz Plunkett and her unexpected encounter with the Winter Soldier at a dive bar!

**GET YOUR FEET WET**

 

 

            Biz Plunkett, _née_ Hollander, officially divorced for exactly two weeks, was enjoying The Thirsty Gull. There was nothing like sitting in a smoky, greasy, noisy bar with your girlfriends to celebrate the beginning of the rest of your life.

            She had always assumed dive bars were dive bars the world over, but she was starting to discover that dive bars in Sarasota were vastly different than dive bars in Urbana. The Thirsty Gull had an ambiance she'd never felt in any of the bars, taverns, pubs, or restaurants she frequented in Illinois. It was smoky and dark and glowing with color, hung with fake fishing nets and real stuffed game fish. The windows were wide open, letting in the heady smells of the beach across the street – warm sand, salt water, suntan lotion – and she could hear, over the shouting of her friends and the other bar patrons and the karaoke, competing music and noise from the sidewalk, the outside patio, the passing cars cruising down Ocean Boulevard at a crawl.

            Their booth was a rickety, pock-marked, and – after two hours of drinking – rather sticky old wooden table pushed up against the greasy plank walls. Rusty tin buckets did strange duty as hanging lights, and the floor was covered in peanut shells. Muted by the rumble of noise, Def Leppard made a brave attempt to be heard, but succeeded only in adding to the shrill clamor. Biz was full of hot wings and onion rings and beer; her fingers were tacky and oily, and she had a dollop of blue cheese dressing smeared across her left breast. She didn’t care. Freedom felt good.

            “How about that one?” said Andie, pointing with her daiquiri. "He's drinking a really expensive beer."

            The other four women at the table followed her gesture, heads lowered, squinting in the dark smokiness.

            “Boring,” declared Merle with a sniff, flipping her hair. “He's wearing pleated pants. Pleated pants are a sign that the guy is a lazy dresser who doesn't care enough to make an effort." She grinned. "He probably doesn't trim his ear hair, either.”

            Biz giggled. Brett had worn pleated pants all the time, and she'd hated them. It made her feel good to know that Merle, the prettiest and youngest in her group of friends, disapproved of Biz’s ex-husband’s chosen apparel.

            “How about that guy? The one in the red shirt. He’s kinda cute,” said Cara behind her hand, tipping her head toward the bar where a tall, dark-haired man was chatting with the bartender.

            “Hm,” said Merle, narrowing her eyes and tapping her lip with one glossy nail. “Biz? What do you think? Would you hit that?”

            Biz eyed the red-shirted man surreptitiously over the rim of her glass. She felt like she should be in a duck blind for this. “He _is_ cute,” she conceded, but at that moment, the bartender pushed two fruit-and-umbrella garnished frozen drinks over to him, and they groaned.

            “Girly drinks,” sighed Cara, rubbing her temples. “Dammit. Why can’t guys just order a freaking beer? Why do they gotta be all fancy and stuff?” She took a slurp of her drink.

            “Don’t be judgmental,” rebuked Dawn. She was the eldest, ten years older than Biz, and had given up coloring her hair ages ago. She still got more action than Merle, much to the younger woman’s chagrin. She was nursing a shot of Jäger and perusing the male population with the poised expectation of a pagan queen. “Maybe he's confident in his sexuality. Maybe he's trying to get more vitamin C in his diet." Her eyes twinkled. "Maybe he’s buying them for his boyfriend."

            They all shrieked with laughter, even though Biz didn’t think it was all that funny. She’d had just enough beer and tequila that her friends’ conversation was the brightest, most scintillating thing she’d ever heard, and laughter was coming easy to her tonight. She hoped that was a good sign.

            “Biz! Touch up your lip gloss!” hissed Merle, shaking Biz by the arm. “Hottie at two o’clock!”

            Andie, never blessed with acumen at the best of times, but most certainly taken down a level or two by the amount of daiquiris she’d drunk, looked confusedly at her watch. “Two? It’s eight!”

            “God, Andie,” said Merle, rolling her eyes.

            Biz, Cara, and Dawn slewed their heads around to look. “Smirky,” said Cara, shaking her head. "Bet he's an arrogant dick. And he's wearing Michael Koors sunglasses. _Indoors_." She rolled her big brown eyes, her gold earrings glinting against her skin.  “Come on, girls. Biz can do better than that.”

            “You bet I can,” giggled Biz, finishing her beer. Smirky Sunglasses Guy wasn't even as good-looking as her ex had been. “Not that anyone’s gonna suffer by comparison,” she added.

            The girls all went, “Ooo!” and Dawn said, “Ouch! Poor Bizzie, did Brett have a teeny weenie?”

            They whooped with laughter. Biz had laughed so much this evening that her cheeks were starting to ache. It was a good feeling. It had been her heart aching the past few years.

            “I need more tequila,” announced Merle, setting her shot glass down with a thunk in the detritus of onion rings and ketchup. “None of these guys are cute enough yet.”

            “Flag the waitress,” said Cara to Andie as she got shakily to your feet. “Gonna go pee?”

            “Yep, daiquiri’s are knockin’,” grinned Andie. She wrenched her rather rumpled blouse back into place over her breasts. Biz had lost track of how many daiquiris Andie had managed to put away. It was pretty impressive she could even stand. She wobbled a bit on her high heels, but managed to stagger down the crowded hallway to the neon restroom sign, her blonde hair falling out of its clip.

            "Okay," gushed Biz with a giggle, digging her phone out of her little purse. "Selfie time!"

            "God, you and your selfies," complained Dawn good-naturedly, but she cozied up with Biz, Merle, and Cara for the picture. Biz thought it turned out well, but Dawn made fun of Merle's duck-lips. Laughing, she put her phone away.

            “Seriously, Biz,” said Cara, leaning forward and draining the last of Andie’s daiquiri. “This is a seminal moment.” She paused, like a YouTube video buffering, then erupted into giggles.

            “What?” asked Biz, mystified.

            “I said seminal!” squealed Cara. “Semen!”

            “God,” chuckled Dawn. “Girls, Cara’s plowed.”

            “Oh, come on, that was funny!” protested Cara. She dabbed at her eyes. “Dammit. My eyeliner’s smudging.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Ewwww ... The table’s all gross. I’m gonna fix my makeup.”

            “Make sure Andie makes it back okay,” called Merle after her. She cast her eyes around the room. “Hm. Biz, what do you think of the ginger guy with the goatee over there? Kinda hipster, but that compression shirt fits him reeeeallly nice.”

            Biz looked, then grimaced. The young man – emphasis on "young" – had sandy red hair gelled into a faux-hawk, hornrims, and was drinking what looked like absinthe. He was lightly chatting with a group of twenty-somethings, all appearing as though they were only slumming in a dive bar to be ironic about it. “God, Merle, he doesn’t even look old enough to drink,” she complained. “Have you forgotten I’m forty-two?”

            “Younger men are awesome,” argued Merle. “I’m thirty-eight, and I’d tap that little ass.”

            “They are a lot firmer,” Dawn agreed. The waitress stopped by their table and Dawn smiled up at her. “More tequila for the cougar over here,” she said sweetly, patting Merle on the shoulder. “Another pitcher of Sam Adams for our newly divorced friend, and could I please have a Crown-and-Coke?”

            “Sure thing, sugar,” drawled the waitress. She was pretty, but older and rather hard-bitten, though her face bore the cheerful marks of a lot of laughter. Her pink tank top and denim miniskirt looked soft and worn, and her Keds were freshly painted, glowing white against her burnt brown legs. “Y’all want more wings?”

            “Please,” said Biz. “And more celery, too.”

            “You got it,” said the waitress, smiling around her toothpick. “And congratulations; had three divorces myself. They just keep gettin’ better." She adjusted a bra strap and said easily: "Aimin’ to get laid? Lotta good-lookin’ guys in here tonight.”

            Biz blushed furiously, but Merle piped up: “We’re all trying to get Bizzie laid! You kidding me? Flew all the way down here from snowy fucking Illinois to see hot guys in Speedos, and help her forget her lousy ex. Keep the tequila and testosterone coming!”

            The waitress laughed. “Tequila's easy,” she grinned. “You want testosterone? I'll see who I can dig up.” She sauntered off, yelling through the crowd to the bartender: “CHARLIE! CUERVO SHOTS, PITCH OF ADAMS, CROWN AND COKE, MORE WINGS TABLE FIVE!”

            “Merle!” hissed Biz. “What are you trying to do? I want to have sex, not a pity-fuck!” She blushed deeper. She never used the F-word. Brett had disapproved. But fuck it, he had also cheated on her, so he could fucking take his F-word and fuck himself with it.

            “What?” asked Merle, spreading her manicured hands. “This is your inauguration as a footloose and fancy-free single lady. All you’re looking for is a lay, right? Ginger guy is cute. And you heard Dawn; the young guys are firmer.”

            "Everywhere," added Dawn sagely, making a grabby motion with her plump little hand. "Tell you what, girlfriend, once you get your claws in a thirty-year-old ass, you'll completely forget about the last time you and shitty Brett bumped uglies." She spread her fingers, eyes cast piously to the ceiling. "Like biting into a nice, fresh peach. Sends you right to heaven."

            "Mm, yeah," affirmed Merle, adjusting her breasts and eyeing the redheaded hipster contemplatively. "And that's not even mentioning their refraction time."

            Dawn and Merle bumped fists, and Biz just shook her head. She had been faithful to Brett for the duration of their marriage, clinging to her conservative upbringing, and had, on principle, kept out of any single man's way throughout the divorce process. Brett's infidelity had crushed her confidence, but the constant, two-year battle to regain her independence had proved to her that she was far more resilient than she'd ever suspected. She sometimes peered backwards at herself, at the fearful and desperate woman she'd been, and marveled that she'd emerged such a different person. Thirty-nine-year-old Biz had considered trolling for men in bars to be trashy. Forty-two-year-old Biz was finding herself intrigued and stimulated by the prospect.

            Dawn and Merle continued to analyze the male population of The Thirsty Gull until the waitress came back with their order. Andie and Cara tottered up just as she was setting the tray down. “Aw, girls, you didn’t get me more daiquiris?” whined Andie. Her hair looked a little better, as though Cara had intervened, but drunk fingers had ultimately failed, her clip off-center.

            “I can get you more daiquiris, hon,” the waitress promised. She glanced at Cara, who was carefully smoothing down her pixie cut. “How about you, want anything else?”

            “Everything else!” crowed Cara, throwing her thin arms wide and knocking a hanging light so hard it swung back and tapped her on the head. She looked at it, confused and a little offended, and Biz and Dawn laughed at her. The waitress smiled tolerantly.

            “I’ll get you a margarita, how’s that, hon?” she said. “Just got a delivery of fresh, home-grown limes. Gonna be good stuff.”

            “Okay!” said Cara enthusiastically. “Margaritas are great! Did you know," she said owlishly, wagging her finger at her friends, "that margaritas have _orange_ liquor in them? _And_ tequila!” She threw her arms out again, expansively, as though thanking the universe for this. She missed the lamp this time. "Isn't that _awesome?_ "

            “Yes, it is,” agreed the waitress, winking at Biz and Dawn, and went back to the bar.

            “I like her,” declared Cara. “She brings us booze!”

            “I like her too,” said Dawn dryly. “She puts up with loud, drunk, middle-aged single ladies.” She winked at Biz. "We'd best tip her really well."

            "I'll drink to that," agreed Biz, pouring herself a beer. It zithed and foamed pleasantly in her glass, and tasted sharp and fresh. She wasn't drunk, but her insides were purring and the lights were bright. She felt good – adventurous and happy. It was a first for her.

            "Shit," said Dawn suddenly. Merle and Biz turned to her, concerned. "Forgot to ask the waitress for more onion rings."

            "Want me to get her?" asked Andie cheerfully. She gripped the table tight, preparing to rise; Biz was pretty sure she wouldn't make it on the first try.

            "No, sweetie," said Dawn firmly. "I'll flag her down." She looked over her shoulder to the bar, then did a double-take. She gasped and groped blindly for Biz’s hand.

            “Biz,” she hissed. “BIZ.”

            “What?” asked Biz, bewildered.

            Dawn turned back. Her eyes were alight with an unholy joy.

            “LOOK,” she said, and pointed.

            All five women turned to the back corner of the bar. There was no question which man Dawn meant. He stood, dark and whipcord-lean, draped against a Christmas light-wrapped strut, shot glass in hand. Broad-shouldered, bare-armed and shaggy-haired, he smiled sideways and blinked lazily down at the bartender, shabby and sinewy, carriage proud and tall as a royal Turk, pale eyes glinting cold, his jaw sharp enough to cut diamonds. As one, they all inhaled deeply.

            “Okay,” whispered Merle, eyes wide. “That is one grade A, government-inspected, prime cut piece of beef.”

            Biz stared. “Uh,” she said. For the first time that night, she felt extremely apprehensive. “That’s, um …”

            “Oh my GOD,” squeaked Cara. “He’s so SKEEVY.”

            “He’s creepy,” agreed Andie. “Where’s my drink? I need a drink for this.”

            “I think I do too,” said Biz. “My god, Dawn, he looks like a vampire or something. Don't tell me you're going for the Edward Cullen types now.”

            "Not for _me_ ," laughed Dawn. "For _you_ , Biz." At her friends' blank stares, Dawn rolled her eyes. "Come on, girls. We've combed through the male population here tonight and come up dry. We could go to another bar and try our luck, but we're buzzed and comfy and just ordered more food. He's young, he's hot, he's alone." She looked around the table. Andie seemed startled and uncomprehending; Cara looked alarmed; Merle kept shooting melting looks at the bar. "Biz," begged Dawn. "Give it a shot."

            "Dawnie," complained Cara. "That's just some random biker homeless mass murderer guy. Biz needs someone _nice._ Not …" She waved a thin hand behind her. "That weirdo."

            "Right," assented Merle, eyes sparkling. "Anyone hits on vampire hobo guy, it's gonna be me."

            “Shut up,” snapped Dawn. “Don’t look at his clothes. Don’t look at his hair. Look at HIM.” She glared around the table. “For once in your shallow, middle-aged lives,” she commanded. “ _Look_ _at that man_.”

            They looked again. Biz swallowed thickly. When she had agreed to let her friends find her a post-divorce lay, this was not what she had envisioned. In her mind’s eye she had seen herself with a man her age, trim, handsome, with all his hair, clean teeth, maybe a nice car. Someone safe and agreeable and guaranteed to make Brett look like the piece of cheating, lying, sexist trash he was.

            She hadn’t been looking for an itinerant serial killer. Apparently, though, this was what Dawn thought she needed.

            He tipped his head up and laughed, the neon lights illuminating the sharp jut of jaw and cheekbone, cupid’s-bow mouth stretched into a sideways smile that was one degree shy of a smirk. Dark, shaggy hair slipped out of a messy half-knot and framed pale, beautiful, haunted eyes, distant and sharp all at once, roving and restless, unsure. One bare arm stretched to the bar, picked up the shot glass, and he drank; the arm was smoothly muscled, the ball of the shoulder thick where it joined his torso. The tank top he wore was snug enough to showcase a long, flat stomach, and the ratty jeans, just visible through the press of the crowd around the bar, hugged a pair of legs that were obviously well-acquainted with the gym – powerful, tense, an athlete’s body.

            “Stop it,” teased Dawn’s voice in her ear. “You’re drooling.”

            “I’m more than drooling,” averred Merle, eyes roving. “My god. I’d let him do _anything_ to me.”

            “I don’t know,” said Andie nervously. “I think his ‘anything’ might be a little too much.”

            “Too rough,” proclaimed Cara. “For Biz. She needs someone more, you know, refined.” The waitress reappeared, bearing margaritas and daiquiris. “Not a biker, you know? Though he is cute,” she admitted, waving her arm a little haphazardly in the man’s direction. “Fuckable. You know?”

            “Definitely fuckable,” agreed Merle, her mouth curved up into an avid smile. She was running her forefinger around the edge of her glass. It was a little unnerving, Biz thought. “Wow. My god. Look at those _thighs_.”

            “You girls seeing something you like?” queried the waitress equably, setting down the daiquiris and margaritas. She glanced over her shoulder where they were staring, put her tray down on their table, bent over with her hands on her knees, and laughed so hard Biz thought she would crack open.

            "What?" demanded Merle, looking offended. "Oh my god. Please tell me he's not gay."

            "Oh, Jesus, Jesus Christ," chuckled the waitress, wiping her eyes with one hand, and clutching her stomach with the other. "You five nice Midwestern ladies are talking about tapping HIS ass? Oh, Christ!"

            "Is he dangerous?" queried Andie avidly. "He looks so dangerous!"

            "Like an outlaw," agreed Cara, taking a deep slurp of her margarita. "On the run from the cops." She looked down at her glass. "Wow, you were right. This is really good."

            "I'll tell him you said so," grinned the waitress, gesturing at the dark, strange man at the bar. "They're his limes. He brings 'em in every couple of weeks in exchange for free food."

            "Is he homeless?" asked Dawn sympathetically.

            "Him? Naw," said the waitress, picking up her tray. "Just lazy."

            "But not dangerous?" pressed Merle. She looked back at him through hooded eyes. "God, I'd love to see him naked."

            "Good luck there," shrugged the waitress. "That boy gets hit on every time he comes in, five, six times a night. Men, women, whatever. Nobody gets nowhere with him."

            Merle straightened her blouse. It was excruciatingly tight and low-cut, displaying her $5000-per-breast assets beautifully. She had even dabbed them with sparkly powder to make them stand out more. The waitress gave her a wry glance.

            "Don't bother, honey," she said kindly. "Lots of pretty women've tried to get in his pants. Nothing ever comes of it."

            "Maybe he's on the lam," suggested Andie eagerly, stirring her daiquiri with more enthusiasm than alacrity. "Like in a movie or something. A fugitive."

            "If so, he's doing a shitty job not being noticed," said Dawn sardonically.

            "Look, ladies," conceded the waitress. "I don't know much about him, just that he comes in with his limes, gets an unlimited supply of popcorn shrimp and hush puppies, and can put away expensive tequila like it's water. Criminal, undercover cop, witness protection program, whatever. All I know is that he comes in alone and leaves alone, every single time."

            "Maybe not this time," said Dawn, smiling at Biz. "What do you say, girlfriend? Give it a shot?" At Biz's disbelieving stare, Dawn conceded, "If he turns you down, you don't have to feel bad, because apparently he turns _everybody_ down."

            "It'd be good practice," admitted Merle, watching him intently. “Mm, that mouth.”

            "What do you have to lose?" added Andie tactlessly. "He's just gonna say no, right?"

            "Come on, Bizzie," urged Cara. "Go for it! Show him your game!"

            "I don't _have_ any game," grumbled Biz, her stomach in knots. She glanced back over at him. He was propped against the bar, his lean body a graceful arc splashed by the flickering neon around him. He was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, grinning at something a fellow patron had said, an older man with a greasy cap and stained fishing shirt. Two long strands of dark hair stuck to the sides of his throat, stubbled and long and absurdly elegant. His left arm, Biz noted with beer-muddled shock, was a prosthetic of some sort, or covered in a metal sleeve up to his shoulder, throwing back the colored lights around the bar. His white tank top was so thin he might as well have been shirtless. She could track the curve of his pectoral muscle and crenelated abdominals from across the room.

            She caught herself wondering what muscles like that felt like beneath her fingertips. Brett had been so soft and fat …

            "Is he okay?" she asked the waitress anxiously. "I mean, he's not dangerous?"

            "Nah," said the waitress. "He's a sweetie. Never makes any trouble, treats people nice. Little rough around the edges, but that's what makes him sexy, right?" She snagged a passing busboy by the apron, a slim Hispanic teen with sparkling ear gauges and guyliner. "Carlos," she said. "These ladies been askin' about James over there, wanna know if he's dangerous."

            "What, that papi?" said Carlos with a surprised laugh. "No way; he's all show with that motorcycle and hair. I been hitting on him for months, and he always turns me down nice. Corazoncito, that one."

            "There you go," said the waitress comfortably, letting the busboy go like a catch-and-release carp. She winked at Biz. "Nothin' to worry about. Have fun, sweetie." She sauntered away to the next table, and through the din Biz heard her say, "What'll ya have, darlin'?"

            "I don't know what 'corasomething' means, but it sounds like my name, so you should go for it," urged Cara.

            "What do you have to lose?" repeated Andie around her straw.

            Biz looked around the table at her friends. They were all watching her expectantly, eyes bright with alcohol and hope. She felt a warm surge of affection for them. They had stuck by her side the past three years, through her discovery of Brett's affair, through the painful separation and filing, the custody battle and alimony disputes. She couldn't have asked for a better support group. They all thought that she, Elizabeth Plunkett, forty-two, recently divorced, single mother, overweight and emotionally fragile, could hit on a gorgeous, scary man in a Florida dive bar and _actually have a shot._

            And they were right. The inevitable refusal wouldn't hurt, not really, because she knew he refused everyone. It would be nothing personal.

            She could do this.

            "Okay," she said unsteadily, pushing herself to her feet. She brushed her hands down her blouse and unhooked her little purse from the chair back. "I'm, um, gonna go to the ladies' room and freshen up my makeup, then …" She gulped. "Go for it."

            "Yes!" they all whooped, fist-pumping and squealing, and patting her back and arms as she tottered down the dark hallway to the bathrooms.

            The ladies' room was a one-holer that smelled of urine masked by a floral plug-in freshener, but it was reasonably clean, though she did have to wipe the sink with a paper towel before setting down her purse. She got rid of some beer, careful to straighten her pencil skirt so the seams lay right, and brushed ineffectively at the spot on her blouse. Fortunately, it didn’t show much. She pulled out her little travel makeup kit and freshened up her eyes and lips, then ran her fingers through her hair. She liked her new haircut; it was modern and made her look like she was still in her thirties. Thank god for Merle’s hairdresser.

            Standing in front of the spotty bathroom mirror, she ran her hands up and down her clothes absently, staring at her reflection in the murky reddish light. Was she really going to do this? Her confidence had been shattered by Brett’s infidelity, and she had to continually remind herself that his actions didn’t have anything to do with her worth. She studied her face carefully. Her makeup was perfect. Her hair was perfect. Her outfit was perfect. If she couldn’t hit on a guy in a Florida dive bar looking this good, she might as well hang up her Gay Divorcée card and resign herself to being what Cara called a Retro-Virgin for the rest of her life.

            She rummaged in her purse and pulled out the box of condoms that Merle had laughingly put there. It was one thing, she thought acerbically, for a man to decide to have sex. Tab A fit into Slot B easily, but for some reason no one really considered how Slot B felt about it all. It was so intrusive.

            But it didn't matter. He was going to turn her down anyway.

            She put the condoms back, and pulled her cellphone out of her purse to take a quick selfie. She looked better than she had in years, she thought; the stress of the divorce had helped her shed ten pounds, and her stretchy skirt was short and showed off her legs, elongated in the new – and pinchy – high heels. Her face was a tad flushed by their evening of drinking, but her makeup looked good. She looked good.

            She looked _really_ good _._

            Most of the people she normally sent her selfies to were sitting in the booth by the bar, but it was such a good picture she had to send it to _someone_. She decided to text the picture to her daughter. Lucy had refused to spend the week with Brett, still furious over the way he'd treated her mother, and was staying with her best friend's family instead. Apparently, Brett's fiancée had had a lot to do with her decision. Biz grimaced and thought automatically, _What a bitch_ , her knee-jerk reaction to "be nice" and "forgive." That seemed ridiculous to her. Why? Why should she? Jeanie certainly hadn't been very nice. Karma was a bigger bitch than that homewrecker could ever be, after all.

            Biz sent the selfie to Lucy and texted beneath it, _gonna hit on a cute guy at the bar, wish me luck honey!_ She added some sweaty-face and martini glass emojis, and hit "send" before she chickened out.

            She checked herself one last time in the mirror. She could do this. She _could_. If only her heart would stop thumping so erratically.

            Just as she stepped out of the bathroom, she felt her cellphone buzz in her purse. She dug it back out and opened the message from her daughter. There was a picture of Lucy with her best friend Katie in their fuzzy pajamas, cross-legged on Katie's bed, both giving her thumbs-up with excited looks on their faces. _GOOD LUCK MAMMA GO GET U SOME!!!!!_ was displayed under the picture, followed by a dozen emojis of smiley-faces and hearts, and something that looked like a dildo, but turned out to be, on closer inspection, a beer bottle.

            Warmed by the unequivocal and surprisingly PG13-rated support of two fourteen-year-olds, Biz tucked the phone back in her purse and headed to the bar. Her quarry was in sight, resting his elbows on the bar and chatting with one of the barbacks. This presented his admittedly appealing backside to her, and she wondered what would happen if she just walked by and _grabbed_ it. It looked so nice and perky.

            Heart tripping high in her chest, she flagged the bartender over. He sauntered up to her, big bald head gleaming, eyes behind his hornrims friendly. "Yeah, honey?" he shouted over the din, wiping his hands on a green towel.

            "Could you please … get that guy … " she gestured with her head at the dark stranger, and groped in her purse with shaking hands. "Another one of … whatever he's drinking?" At his raised eyebrows, she added hurriedly, "I mean – if you think that's okay? I just – "

            The bartender grinned. "Bucky-boy over there?” he said, gesturing with his thumb. “Biker dude? You sure? He drinks the top-shelf stuff, hon."

            "I'm sure," she said firmly, pushing a twenty across the bar to him. "I mean – " She dithered a moment, second-guessing herself. "Is he, um, safe?"

            "Oh, yeah," said the bartender offhandedly, picking up the twenty and taking a bottle of silver tequila from the upper shelf. The bottle was slim and tall and looked expensive. "He's a good guy. Shoots three under par and has season tickets to the Rays. But not a meathead or anything," he added hurriedly. "Nice, solid dude." He winked. "Good luck!"

            "Thanks," said Biz, aware she had crossed some sort of sexual Rubicon. She'd paid her money and sent the bartender over with the drink. She couldn't turn back now. There was a tight flutter somewhere around her left eye, and she felt her courage start to drain away. She watched the bartender pour out the shot in front of the man, saw him gesture with his head down the bar to her. Then, to her terror, her quarry turned his head and looked at her.

            Her hands were quivering. She squeezed them into fists, so tight it hurt, then released them, willing them to still. He was going to turn her down, and she would go back to the table, having established that she was, indeed, capable of hitting on a man in a bar. That was all. Nothing else.

            Bright, pale eyes locked with hers, unblinking, startled and a little wary. His hands, one flesh and one metal, rested on the bar on either side of the shot glass. She smiled as best she could, feeling a little sick, and raised her hand to wave to him, hoping she wasn't visibly shaking. Inside, it felt as though she was going to quake into a million pieces.

            Steel blues softened, the skin around the edges crinkling into a smile. His mouth, red with a sensuously curved upper lip, curled up, white teeth baring in a warm grin. He picked up the shot glass with his metal hand and, keeping her gaze locked with his, threw it back. She watched him swallow, the bob of the Adam's apple in that long neck, gulping along with him in nervous sympathy. He turned, his head cocked to one side, considering her a moment. He licked his lips, sending a shiver down her spine, and then to her horror he pushed through the crowd toward her.

            She locked her knees, feeling vaguely through her panic that her feet were absolutely killing her, and she ought to have pulled up a bar stool before starting her campaign of conquering her fears and insecurities. She suspected her determined smile looked more like a terrified grimace, and hoped she wasn't projecting too much apprehension.

            He was ten feet away, five, standing right in front of her, shouldered through the press of people around the bar, taller than she anticipated. He smelled like citrus and cigarettes and soap, and his smile, bent down upon her upturned face, was gorgeous. He was even prettier up close than he had been from far away. Her tongue felt thick and dry.

            "Cielo," he said; his voice was light and husky, the shift of waves on stone shingle. "Very classy. Thanks."

            "You're welcome," she breathed. She should probably blink soon, but that would mean a portion of a second not spent gazing up into his stupidly beautiful face. So she would just stand there and stare until her eyeballs dried up. It would be totally worth it.

            "James," he said after an indeterminate number of moments, offering his hand. Her own, lifted slowly into his palm, felt heavy and numb. Fortunately, instead of shaking it and expecting her to actually shake back, he brought it to his lips, brushing his mouth against the back with a mischievous smile. It occurred to her that he could tell she was star-struck and nervous, but did not appear to be put off by it at all. Instead, he seemed at once amused and flattered.

            He waited a beat, still holding her hand, then prompted kindly, "And who do I have the honor of meeting, and drinking her tequila?" He dropped his R’s, sounding like New York or Boston. It added to his rough image.

            "Oh," she said, shaking herself a little. She must've had more beer than she'd thought. "I'm, um, Biz. Elizabeth," she added quickly. "Plunkett. I mean, Hollander."

            He grinned. "You sure?" he said, gently teasing. "Doesn't sound to me like you're all that confident who you really are."

            "I'm Elizabeth Plunkett," said Biz, her heart sinking. She didn't have any game at all, did she? "But everyone calls me Biz. And my maiden name is Hollander, and I'm going to go back to it soon, because I just got divorced and – " She gulped. "I'm rambling," she said, and gave a nervous, breathy laugh. "I'm so sorry – "

            "Hey," said James seriously, resting her hand on the bar and leaning in, conspiring and private. "Don't you apologize to me, not after you bought me that shot." She smiled, and he answered it, crooked and impish. "Divorced, huh? Fresh out of it?"

            "Two weeks ago today," she admitted. He nodded sagely.

            "You okay?" he asked, unexpectedly grave.

            "Yes," she said, surprised. "I mean, I am _now_. It was really hard, and expensive, and it took _forever_ – almost two years - but it was the right thing to do, and my daughter and I are better off, so I'm glad I did it."

            "All right then," he said, smiling again. "If that's the case." He gestured past her, and the bald bartender showed up, grinning. "Charlie," James said. "Two shots of Cielo on my tab to celebrate this little lady's freedom from tyranny and oppression."

            "You got it," beamed Charlie, winking at her and taking down the tall bottle again. He filled two shot glasses with the sparkling liquid and presented them to James and Biz with a flourish. James lifted one and held it up to her.

            "To liberty," he said, the barest hint of a smirk.

            She answered his salute. "Liberty," she agreed.

            The Cielo was nothing like the Patron that Merle had been drinking all night. The Patron had felt harsh, smelling like turpentine; the Cielo was smooth with an almost cinnamon undertone. "Wow," she said. "This is really good."

            "If you're gonna drink tequila, get the good stuff," proclaimed James. "Life's too short to put up with cheap shit."

            This made so much sense to Biz. She nodded sagely. "Yes," she said. "That's so true. That's why I'm hitting on you instead of any of the other guys here."

            He blinked, and she could feel her face heat up. At his quizzical look, she blurted: "Because I’m trying to get laid and you're super-handsome." He opened his mouth, looking a little stunned, and she dropped her head in her hand. "Oh god. I'm so sorry. I've had a lot of beer and I can't flirt."

            "No, you can't," he laughed. "Jesus, sweetheart, I gotta say, a lady bein' that direct, it's kinda refreshing."

            "Oh my god, I'm so sorry," she repeated to her hand. She wished the ground would open up and swallow her. "I never do this. I'm so embarrassed."

            "Hey," he said gently, touching her shoulder. "Don't be. Come on, doll, look at me, okay?"

            Slowly, Biz raised her head and peeped at him through her fingers. He was smiling at her, not a condescending or smug or teasing smile, but frank and open, and his striking blue-gray eyes were twinkling. His smile slid a little sideways.

            "I'm kind of an expert on flirting," he said deprecatingly, putting his warm, calloused hand over hers. "If you want, I'll give you some pointers so you can go into your next skirmish with a little more polish and confidence, you know?"

            "Oh?" she said weakly. "Um." She bit her lip, and he grinned.

            "First of all," he said easily, "that looks good. Biting your lip like that. Makes a fella think about your mouth, you get what I’m saying?"

            "Oh," she said. She remembered how focused she'd been on his mouth when he'd licked his lips. "That makes sense."

            "Now, turn in a little," James said. He touched her hip with his flesh hand and moved her imperceptibly inward. She could feel the imprint of his fingertips burning in her skin. "Toward me. That's right."

            At her side, his presence had been intimidating; facing him, he was spellbinding, all smooth muscle and dark, devilish face. Biz felt like her skin was covered in goose bumps. But it might've been the tequila. She couldn't seem to tear her eyes away, not even when he gestured to the bartender and got them two more shots.

            "Here you go," he soothed. "Loosen you up a bit. That's right."

            She took the shot; it burned and tingled, warming her from the inside out.

            "Now," smiled James. "When you talk to me, touch my arm and hand every now and then."

            She looked down, drawn to the metal prosthetic gleaming in the neon light. He flinched a little, as though he were embarrassed by it.

            "It's okay," he said quickly. "You don't gotta touch – this." The barest hesitation, a puff of breath. “Thing.” He moved it behind his back, smile fading.

            "No," she said. Nothing made her sadder than to think this beautiful, sweet man was ashamed of a part of his body. He was a god. He should own every bit, even the metal parts. "I want to."

            "Do you?" He looked nonplussed and pleased. "Okay." He slowly moved his arm back, hesitated, then with a deep inhale presented it to her.

            She drew her hand down the inside of his forearm. The reticulated plates bumped beneath her fingertips, and when he turned his arm over, she could feel them shift and adjust. The metal was surprisingly warm.

            “That’s good,” he said, and she looked up at him in surprise. His voice sounded a little diffident. His eyes were downcast, watching her hand on his wrist. He looked at her through his lashes. She wondered who the last person was who had willingly touched the metal arm.

            “It feels good?” she wondered.

            He huffed a chuckle. “No, I mean, that’s a good way to flirt.” He grinned. “Shows interest.”

            “Well, I’m interested,” she said frankly, and liked it when he laughed.

            “Let’s have another shot,” he said, and flagged the bartender over. Biz reflected while watching the tequila rope into the shot glasses that this was the longest conversation she’d had with a member of the opposite gender in three years that didn’t involve financial reports and spreadsheets. She speculated giddily what her coworkers would say if they could see her now. Drinking tequila at a beachfront bar with a hot biker! Not Biz Plunkett! But yes, apparently Biz Plunkett, because he handed her a shot glass, saluted her with his own, and down the tequila went, sharp and smooth like a freshly-honed knife.

            She wondered what her next move should be, and wished she could see her friends' table from this angle for emotional support. Well, she was on her own now. She would just have to wing it.

            “So,” she said, emboldened by the liquor and his own diffidence. She circled his wrists with her hands, amazed at how small her fingers looked, and turned them in to compare them, metal to flesh. “This is a prosthetic? Did you lose your arm?”

            James hesitated just a second, but Biz saw the flicker of apprehension he gave his arm. “Yep,” he said. “Got this after I left the Army.”

            “Cool,” she said. She squeezed his wrists and smiled up at him. God, he was beautiful; his face was like a marble sculpture, the scruff only accenting its structure. His mouth slid sideways; his eyes crinkled as he smiled.

            “You’re getting pretty good,” he complimented her. He turned his flesh hand around to grasp hers. She was vaguely aware that she couldn’t stop smiling at him. “Wanna learn another trick?”

            “Sure,” she gushed. He grinned again and, pulling his hands out of hers, dug in his pocket. He pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette and a lighter.

            “You smoke?” he asked, putting the cigarette to his lips.

            “I used to,” she confessed. “In college.”

            “Good,” he said. “Now watch.” He lit the cigarette and pocketed the lighter. He took a couple of puffs, careful to blow the smoke away from her face, then said, eyes twinkling: “Now. I’m gonna take a hit. Then you take the cigarette out of my mouth, and _you_ take a hit. Meet my eyes,” he added; the cigarette bobbed against his lips. “Flirting is all about eye contact.” She nodded avidly. She had no problem meeting his eyes. They were mesmerizing, that clear silver-blue. She would happily stare into his eyes all night. “Here we go,” he said, and inhaled.

            She reached up and plucked the cigarette from his lips. He was smiling. She brought it to her own and took a puff. It was surprisingly harsh; she coughed a little.

            He laughed. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I don’t like filters. Like smokin’ through your grandma’s sweater.” She took another hit; it went down easier this time, her chest warm and stinging. “Now,” he said, “put it back in my mouth. Meet my eyes, remember.”

            Biz turned the cigarette and offered it back to him. Instead of taking it, James just opened his lips a little, smiling. She placed the butt against his full lower lip carefully, and when he closed his mouth, his lips brushed the tips of her fingers. A shiver went down her spine and she swallowed heavily. With a knowing smirk, James inhaled, removed the cigarette, and slowly exhaled through his nose. Biz shouldn’t have found it quite as sexy as she did. It was most likely the tequila.

            “That was good,” he said. His voice was gravelly from the smoke.

            “Yeah,” she breathed. She felt a little light-headed.

            He smoked in silence a moment, contemplating her. For a man with so expressive a face, she couldn't tell what he was thinking. She wondered if he could read her arousal in her expression, and if he could, if it would make him blush. She doubted it. “So," he finally said, hitching his hip a little closer to her. "How’d you get the nickname Biz?”

            “Well,” she began, but jumped and squeaked when she felt a body press against her back. It was Merle; her fake boobs felt like wet concrete blobs.

            “Bizzie!” Merle squealed in her ear, arm slinging across Biz’s waist. She kissed Biz’s cheek wetly. “Who’s your friend?” She squirmed around Biz to stand in front of James, holding out one hand. Biz saw to her annoyance that Merle had unfastened another button, and her chest looked like two hard-boiled eggs rolling against each other in the pan. “I’m Merle,” she purred, holding out her manicured hand to James and fluttering her lashes.

            Fluttering lashes. _That’s_ what Biz should have tried. She didn’t have _any_ game. Also, Merle was doing this hip-jutting thing. Biz should try hip-jutting next time.

            And typical, wasn’t it? Merle jumping in? Biz shouldn’t have been surprised. James _was_ pretty spectacular, all that rugged muscle and Mephistophelian charm. And everyone had all said he wasn’t Biz’s type. Not that she knew what her type was, but this tall, dark, and handsome young man with his rock-hard abs and sexy scruff and edge of danger was off Biz’s grid. She was an accountant, for god’s sake. She went to the dentist twice a year. She drove a minivan. She was on the PTA. And she should most certainly not be surprised when James gave her a polite brush-off and went off into a dark corner somewhere with Merle to discuss mutually relevant things like, oh, the size of her breasts and whether or not she was wearing panties. Merle seemed to have that effect on men.

            She looked up at James a little sadly. She watched his eyes flick down to Merle’s breasts – she couldn’t blame him; they practically begged for attention – then go back up to Merle’s face. To her surprise, he frowned a little. He glanced over at Biz and one vivid eye closed briefly, then opened. It took Biz a moment to realize he had winked at her.

            At _her_. Not at Merle. At _her_.

            “James,” he said offhandedly. He turned to pick up his cigarette, smoldering in the ash tray; this twisted his body away from Merle and back toward Biz. He held that position, took a drag, and handed the cigarette to Biz. Surprised, she plucked it from his hand and took a hit herself. It tasted less harsh the third time. “Biz, this a friend of yours?”

            “Yes,” said Biz, her heart sinking a little. “This is Merle. She and some other friends brought me down here to help me celebrate my divorce.”

            “That’s nice,” smiled James. He was still facing her, his body turned away from Merle’s. The hand he'd offered Merle to shake – shake, not kiss – was careless, the clasp brief. He took Biz’s hand, still holding the cigarette, and brought it to his own mouth, angling it so he could take a drag. His lips touched her fingers; they were warm and wet, smiling around the smoke. “Nice to have good friends, isn’t it?” he said easily to Biz.

            “I LOVE making new friends,” gushed Merle, pressing in closer. She swung her body around so her breasts were on display again. “Meeting new people is so exciting, isn’t it?” She was edging in so close that she crowded up against Biz’s shoulder, squashing her against the bar. “Especially when they’re so – “ She raised her manicured hands and mimed outlining James’ body, shoulders to waist, her eyes trailing down. “Fascinating,” she hummed, and leaned forward. Her eyes flicked down his body. "Let me guess," she crooned, flicking her tongue over her lower lip. "You ride?"

            "Low-Rider V-Rod," James answered, but his gaze was still locked on Biz. The intensity of his regard was weighty, shortening her breath. She shifted a little in her heels, suddenly very aware of her own body. "Smooth and powerful," he added, winking at Biz; she realized she'd licked her lips subconsciously.

            "I read somewhere that men pick motorcycles to match their personalities," Merle simpered. "Care to weigh in on that?"

            "I can prove it," said James, still smiling at Biz. "What do you say, sweetheart?” His eyes skimmed down her torso, then flicked back up. She saw his pupils dilate. “Wanna wrap your legs around my ride?"

            Even through her arousal, Biz could feel Merle stiffen. "I really don't think that's Biz's thing," she said. Her voice was still flirty, but with a hint of disapprobation behind it. She pushed her right shoulder against Biz's left, shifting her back a little, and torqued her own body to line up with his.

            James lifted his arm, blocking her, and raised Biz’s hand to take a drag, his lips pressed against her fingers. Biz didn't think she was imagining the flicker of annoyance on his face. He blew cigarette smoke directly at Merle and said offhandedly, "You must be a real good friend, lookin' after Elizabeth like this." He kept Biz's eye, drew her in, his voice lowered. "Don’t worry," he murmured. "Gonna take real good care of this pretty lady."

            Biz's insides went warm and liquid, and her head lightened. She hadn't felt this way since college. The bar was rapidly becoming far too populated for her liking, and the press of Merle's body against hers was an irritant. She moved forward, away from the wedge of the bar and into James' space. He was warm and smelled like citrus. "I've never been on a motorcycle before," she confessed. She took one last hit of his cigarette, and placed it between his lips. He smiled at her around the blue curl of the smoke, a dark strand of hair transecting his forehead. She brushed it back, feeling confident and audacious; his skin was surprisingly soft beneath her fingertips. "I think I'd like to try it."

            "Do you, now?" James smirked; the cigarette bobbed against his lower lip. He plucked it out, stubbed it in the ash tray. "Then what are we waitin' for, doll?"

            "I don't know," said Biz, boldly grasping his metal hand; it was warm and unyielding, the fingers turning to clasp hers. "But it's not gonna mount itself." She aimed a careless kiss at Merle's cheek; she was standing stock-still, flabbergasted. "Tell everyone good-night, honey. See you tomorrow!" Tightening her grip on James' hand, she tugged him away from the bar, well aware that if she didn't act and act now, she would never have the courage to do this again.

            She was only vaguely aware of the voices of the other patrons, James' laugh, the stunned look on the waitress' face, the sound of Dawn whooping delightedly. She felt James' flesh hand, warm and strong, on the small of her back, guiding her out the door, past the bright lights and smoke and noise. Then they were outside, the neon flickering through the darkness, the sounds of surf and faint, tinny music. The air smelled like salt and bleached wood. It was exotic and strange and wonderful.

            James led her by the hand around the side of The Thirsty Gull's parking lot. A shiny, ugly red Harley-Davidson tilted up at her, gleaming and massive. He crowded her up against it; his body was big and lean, the muscles in his chest taut, metal arm solid and powerful around her waist as he pulled her close. His flesh hand lightly brushed her hair out of her face, cupped her cheek. He smiled down at her, their breath, laced with tequila and smoke, mingling in the humid air between their mouths. Biz couldn't stop herself from looking at his lips, the sensual curve of red. She wanted him to kiss her.

            "You don't gotta," he said instead, voice rough and surprisingly hesitant. His blue eyes were bright with arousal and anxiety mingled. He stroked her cheek with a trembling thumb. "Nothin' you don’t want, sweetheart. You can do whatever you wanna do."

            He was giving her an out. Biz refused to take it. "I want to do everything," she insisted, fisting his tank top in one hand and pressing his metal arm against her hip with the other. She ran her fingers over it, feeling the plates shift against her skin. "Everything." She pushed up on her toes, already aching in her high heels, reaching for his mouth, and he lowered into her, his kiss soft and a little tentative at first. She slid her hand up his neck, and he deepened their kiss, pulling her tight, metal fingers curling into her hip and flesh fingers twisting into her hair. When they parted, they were both a little breathless, and James' pale, beautiful eyes were brilliant.

            "Well, then, doll," he whispered against her lips, his metal hand sliding lower. "Let's do everything."

           

 **à** **Õ** **à** **Õ** **à**

 

            Biz stretched a little, heartbeat slowing, trying to catch her breath. Her body still shivered, damp and disarranged and gloriously sticky. She felt James shift, the slick slide of his skin, hot and solid beside her, his metal arm still curled under her shoulders. It flexed, tugging her close, and she flopped gratefully against him, cheek mushed into the unyielding metal of his shoulder.

            "Jesus, sweetheart," James muttered against her messy hair. His voice was raspy and soft, such a contrast to how he had sounded not a moment before. "Bet you could wear me out."

            Biz smiled, shy and secret into the reticulating plates. "Maybe I could," she conceded, surprised at how throaty her voice was. She hadn't exactly been restrained, either. She ran an appreciative hand over James' chest, the lovely bumps and ridges of his muscles and tendons, the coarse hair between his nipples. "We have the room all night, right?"

            "You bet," grunted James, tangling his fingers in her hair with his metal hand. He groped with his other to the side table until he found his cigarettes. He worried the bag open one-handed, put a cigarette between his lips, and fumbled for his lighter. "Can have as many reruns as you want." He sparked the cigarette and took a few puffs. "Until ten AM, at least," he conceded.

            Biz only hummed. She was surprisingly comfortable, her cheek pressed against the metal overlays. Deep within the shoulder, perhaps where metal married flesh, she could feel a faint hum, just the slightest susurration of the inner machine. Tequila and pleasure dulled her curiosity, and left in its wake a mild bemusement instead.

            Their room, though in the same hotel, was much nicer than the one she had been sharing with Cara and Dawn. James had insisted on paying for the executive suite himself, as it was a special occasion for her. He had also pressed her to text the room number to her friends. "Not 'cause you got anything to worry from me," he'd said, holding her face between his hands, his lips easing down her chin to her throat. His teeth had scraped against her jugular vein, making her quiver. "Just to give ‘em peace of mind."

            The sliding glass door was cracked open, letting the cool, fragrant sea breeze mingle with James' cigarette smoke. Faintly, Biz could hear the passing traffic on the 789. She moved her legs, liking how they skimmed lightly against his. It had been three years since she'd shared a bed with anyone except the dog. Her accountant's mind whirred along with the engine in James' shoulder, and she suggested, "If we amortize the remaining hours left for the night against the amount of time it took us just now, we can do it at least twenty-one more times."

            This startled a laugh out of him; she heard it rumble through his chest. "Despite evidence to the contrary," he drawled, tapping her lightly on the head with a metal finger, "I ain't a machine, sweetheart." She felt him smile against her scalp. "Maybe nineteen more times."

            She giggled. "That could be fun," she admitted, snuggling in. She listened to him smoke a few minutes more, the evening's worth of beer and tequila nudging her into urgency. She gently disentangled herself and slid off the bed. Now that the heat of the moment had passed, she felt diffident about being so exposed – she was at least thirty pounds overweight, according to her doctor – but the avid, appreciative look James was giving her right then made her rethink those weight charts. She had never felt this sexy before, not even when she'd been in college and four dress sizes smaller. Brett certainly hadn't ever looked at her that way.

            "I gotta go to the bathroom," she said, bending down and brushing her lips across his mouth, tasting his cigarette. He smiled lazily up at her through the sinuous curl of smoke, all lean, hard muscle, pale eyes, dusky mess of hair on the pillow. She never wanted to forget the way he looked right then, like the personification of a deadly sin. Impulsively she fumbled for her phone and opened the camera app. "Say cheese," she joked.

            "Naw, wait a minute," he chuckled, tugging her back down beside him. "You gonna do this, do it right." He pulled her close, pressing his cheek against hers. "I could be just any ol' someone. Make it a selfie, you got some solid proof."

            She stretched out her arm and took the selfie. It turned out fantastic, the dim light accenting his sharp cheek and jawline, pale, sleepy eyes indulgent, cigarette hanging negligently from his full lips. And she was cuddled in beside him, the darkness and shadows curved across the planes of their skin, her eyes minxish, smirking knowingly at the viewer.

            She showed it to him as she wriggled back out of bed. "You should send it to your shitty ex," chuckled James.

            "I should," she agreed with a laugh, and sauntered easily to the bathroom, feeling his eyes on her the whole way.

 

 **à** **Õ** **à** **Õ** **à**

 

            Steve heard the sliding glass door in his kitchen slide open. This didn't concern him. He was ninety-nine percent sure it was Bucky, and if it was instead by chance some misguided burglar with an aim to steal his electronics and the Tag watch Tony had given him for his last birthday, the guy was in for an unpleasant surprise when he discovered he was trying to rob Captain America.

            He looked up from his book, a heavy hardbound analysis of the Battle of Iwo Jima. Sure enough, Bucky stood by his dinette set in the early morning sunshine, giving Steve a crooked smile. "Morning."

            "Morning," said Steve, closing his book and setting it down on his immaculate glass-topped side table. "I suppose you want coffee."

            "Yeah," said Bucky. He looked down at his feet and shuffled a little. "Please," he added.

            Steve got up with a grin. "Well, I suppose I could make a fresh pot – " Then he stopped, a sliver of misgiving touching him. Bucky was fully dressed. At eight AM. And he smelled like tequila, cigarettes, and …

            "Oh, my god," said Steve, alarmed. "What the hell – are you just now getting in?"

            Bucky looked away and shoved his hands in his tattered jeans pockets. "Yeah, so?" he said, his voice an odd blend of belligerence and shame. "I’m a grown-ass man, so what's the big deal?"

            "You know damn well what the big deal is," snapped Steve. He crossed the living room and glared down at Bucky. "I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on you, remember? For the first year, you check in every night - "

            He stuttered to a halt, taking in Bucky's appearance. He was even more disheveled than usual, his shirt rucked and wrinkled and stained, three days' worth of stubble on his face, hair an outrageous mess of tangles and cowlicks, and a dark bruise on his neck. Steve suddenly realized with a jolt it was _not_ a bruise. He raised a hand to pull aside the collar of Bucky's tank, wanting to determine if it was what Steve suspected it to be, but Bucky swatted his hand away with a grimace.

            "Stow it," he complained.

            "Is that a _hickey_?" demanded Steve.

            Bucky turned scarlet, answering the question Steve hadn't even thought to ask yet. Stunned, Steve stepped back and leaned on his kitchen counter, watching Bucky's face flush darker. Hickeys suggested kisses, and staying out all night more than suggested what came after kisses.

            "I'll be damned," said Steve blankly.

            Bucky squirmed, unable to meet Steve's eye. He hunched up his shoulders and ran a nervous hand through his hair, staring at the floor like he'd gotten his metal hand stuck in a cookie jar. This … was a first. Maybe even _the_ first. Certainly a first since Bucky had turned himself in to the World Security Council, a year and a half ago, and Steve was pretty sure Bucky hadn't had the leisure to get hickeys while on the run. The corner of Steve's mouth curled up without his permission.

            "A hickey? Really, Bucky?" He didn't even try to stop the smile; it was so natural to tease him. "What are you, twelve?"

            Bucky covered it with his metal hand and looked anywhere but at Steve. "You know what? I'm going to Starbucks. I don't need this shit."

            Steve broke out into a grin. "You did it. You ended your dry spell."

            "Shut up," muttered Bucky. He turned away and shuffled into Steve's kitchen. "I'll make my own damn coffee."

            "Who was it?" asked Steve. He beamed at Bucky's red face, partially hidden by the tangle of his hair. "Anyone I know?" He reached across the counter and poked Bucky's flesh arm. "C'mon. Gonna kiss and tell, tiger?"

            Bucky scowled up at him. "Shut. Up."

            Steve laughed. "Fine," he said. "Be gentlemanly about it. My god." He shook his head disbelievingly. "This is a paramount occasion. I got laid _before_ the legendary Bucky Barnes _._ "

            Bucky only glared and finished setting up Steve's percolator. He plunked it aggressively down on the stove top, turned his back to Steve, and ran his flesh hand through his hair, staring at the floor. His metal hand hung limp, opening and closing slowly.

            Steve's smile melted away. "You okay?" he asked cautiously.

            Bucky took a deep breath. "Yeah," he wavered. "I'm just – yeah. I’m okay."

            "You sure?" When Bucky didn't reply, Steve walked around the counter. Bucky was frowning at the floor, his hand hooked around the back of his neck. His eyes looked like he was a million miles away. "Anything happen?" asked Steve cautiously.

            "No," said Bucky, his eyes still unfocused. "It was fine. Great, in fact." He grinned a little, rubbing the back of his neck. "Really great. Really, _really_ great.” He shook his head slowly, eyes soft and abstracted. “I'd forgotten how great it could be."

            "Well, that's good," said Steve, hiding his relief behind sarcasm. "Otherwise, there wouldn't be much of a point to it."

            "I guess not," Bucky admitted. He turned to Steve, smile quirked. He was still pink around the cheeks, but seemed to have overcome his initial embarrassment. "Did she really give me a hickey?" he asked, touching his neck carefully.

            "Yep," affirmed Steve. "Nice, big one. You're gonna have to start wearing turtlenecks. Or scarves, like those kids in the fedoras and fake glasses."

            "Naw, fuck that," grinned Bucky, taking down two mugs from Steve's neatly arranged cabinets. "I got laid; I'm gonna wear it proudly."

            "You do that," laughed Steve. He heard the percolator start to bubble. "So what's wrong with your coffee maker?" he asked, pulling out two spoons and the sugar. "Thought it was new. You're over here, drinking my coffee about every day. My coffee that much better?"  
            "You got matching mugs," said Bucky. "I like things that match."

            Steve frowned, confused. "Then … why don't you buy matching mugs?"

            "Why should I?" asked Bucky, surprised. "Yours match. I want something matchy, I come over here. Then I don't have to bother."

            Steve shook his head, a fond smile on his face. "You're a freak," he smiled. "A freak with a hickey."

            "Damn straight," said Bucky. He shot Steve a suspicious look. "You're gonna tell Sam, aren't you?"

            Steve raised his eyebrows innocently. "Would I do that?"

            "Now you're just being an asshole," Bucky huffed.

            Steve just smiled. “I had a very good teacher,” he said.

 

 

 **à** **Õ** **à** **Õ** **à**

 

            Eleven hundred miles away, Brett Plunkett poured himself a cup of coffee and waddled stiffly into the condo's master bath. Jeanie's shrill diatribe followed him, echoing around the trendy pale hardwoods and tin ceiling tiles. She was still complaining about the number of business trips he took. She had apparently not taken his frequent absences into account during their affair, figuring they were simply a convenient method for them to see each other far from prying eyes.

            He shut the bathroom door, muffling her grievances slightly. Bizzie's voice hadn't been so strident; she'd had a nice voice, pitched low. She also hadn't complained nearly as much.

            His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pajama pocket. A text message from his ex-wife. He smiled a little. He hadn't realized how much he'd miss her funny, emoji-laden texts. The last few years they'd been married, it was just another thing about her he criticized, but now it seemed strange to get so few text messages per day.

            He checked the message, a guilty thrill running through him that Jeanie didn't know what he was doing. She hated Bizzie with a passion, jealous of every second she and Brett had to see each other. It got irritating, especially considering there was no way to not talk to his own daughter's mother, but Jeanie wouldn’t understand that.

            There was no text, just an attachment. He thumbed it open and froze, eyes bulging, mouth hanging open. A tight, cold knot gripped his sternum, and he leaned weakly on the counter, his hand shaking, staring at the picture. There was no mistaking that shiny metal arm curled around Bizzie's shoulders.

            "Holy shit," he squeaked, and dropped his new iPhone in the toilet.

           

 


End file.
